


Spirit Sickness

by thehomefucker



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehomefucker/pseuds/thehomefucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two matches, this time, caught along his collarbones. Igniting welts, smoldering with a shriek. Trip laughed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spirit Sickness

**Author's Note:**

> Suggested listening: Nui Harime's Theme (Kill la Kill OST), Blumenkranz (Kill la Kill OST)

Mink had a spike driven into his skull. A sterling silver spear skewered through his brain, struck with fists and knees and toys of every variety until it sank so far within him he could no longer hear the birdmen circling above. It ached the first three hundred twenty-four thousand, five-hundred and eighty eight minutes but the further the metal drove beyond his bones, into the pink, and out once more, the less he fought. 

The less he cared.  
The less he remembered.

The first strike were the fingers shoved between Mink's lips. Lithe in their brutality, Trip pulled bits of thirsty amber skin away until Mink dribbled blood onto the tile. The second and third blows came when Trip pulled out his teeth, trimmed his toe nails, groomed the grand beast into his pet. Mink begun counting then. Counting until Trip left, trailing the stink of antiseptic and sheet cake. Counted until the ache dulled and his ancestors muttered amongst themselves at what they saw.

Fourth was a blow to his gut so strong he spit bile. Forced to clean it with his mouth, Trip perched on his back like a buzzard. Mink wept then, as the feathers fell around him, scattering the scent of cinnamon.

The eighth strike sent the spike down to the hypothalamus nerves. Seared into his grey matter. Made him fuzzy and cold but relaxed. That time, Mink counted freckles to the rhythm of Trip fucking his mouth as he no longer saw the birdmen well enough to count their beads. 203, 204, 205—by 226 he was coughing up cum, heart sluggish. 284, Mink was finally alone. 562 and fatigue had yet to hit him and his grandmother turned her back. The twentieth times blurred as Trip broke his bones, one-by-one for the sheer fun and some healed crooked into the forties and at sixty the spike rammed through him as his instincts waned and fear faded and sometimes a little chestnut-haired child reminded Mink to breathe but lately even he hadn't come around.

And now, having served the final strike some eight hundred and ninety-four minutes ago, Mink saw only vultures. Human-faced reapers with feathers as fluid and dark as ink. His brain had rotted around the spike of Trip's torture, leaving nothing but slime and scraps and scars.

"Morning, love." Trip knelt, tugged Mink's face up by the chin. "I've brought breakfast."

Mink hadn't felt hunger in four-hundred sets of counting the hair on his own arms.

Trip tested the restraints on his wrists, chaining him—arms behind his back—to the end of bed. Satisfied, he shoved a biscuit passed Mink’s tongue. A bit of frosting. Some sparkling juice, too. Mink vomited the forced food, attempted to swallow again and choke; was resuscitated with a kick to the kidneys.

"You've become so unoriginal these days." Trip teased his tongue along Mink's cheeks, cupped his jagged hips, enjoying the skin so taut and thin against them.

A year ago Mink had been clay. Dark as river mud and pliable—but now—now he was perfect.

At least he had been.

"I'm a bit disappointed." A slender-toed boot knocked Mink's knees out from under him. Sent his jaw to the tiles. "Like this, you really are nothing."

Mink lay still. The one vulture peered into his eyes. Tasted the skin broken along his shins. 

—One—

Trip fisted his hair, jerked Mink's face across the marble until his cheeks pulled back like leather being tanned.

—two, three the shadows shook four around them as they settled on the tile with a wing’s whisper five—

"Aoba broke, but underneath..." With an impatient breath, Trip propped Mink's hips, one hand still holding down his head, and jammed three fingers in his ass one after the other. 

—eight they slid in tighter eight were here for him now—

"Underneath he was so glorious. So truly lovely." Trip coiled his fingers. Raked blood between his french-tip nails. Tweaked Mink to squawk, cock quivering.

"But you." Rustling. The birds, excited, rubbed their talons, steadied their drums, and Trip, too, released Mink’s head to find something in his breast pocket. "You've fallen so deep it seems you simply shattered."

In the air swirled cedar. Phosphorus. Trip struck the thing against the small of Mink’s back and it sizzled. Snapped. Lit up.

"I guess there really wasn't anything within you."

Trip took another match. Crooked his fingers. Jabbed Mink hard until he felt his cock flinch and ache and the second match drew a thin stinging line up his spine.

—twelve—

Fire kissed his hair: the fuzziest bits shorn short along his neck. Trip put it out with his mouth.

"I wish your best had been better."

Mink writhed against Trip’s clawing. They had come. Down from their alters, the mountains, the cardinal points to approach him on stained moccasins made of his mother’s pelt.

—four-teen fourteen of them four five seven eight eight and—

Two matches, this time, caught along his collarbones. Igniting welts, smoldering with a shriek. 

Trip laughed. The shifting circle closed in.

—eleven-and-one oneoneone—

Blisters jumped along Mink’s arms. His ribs ran red as the skin was flayed to friction. Beaks, Trip, spike-driven memories snared his scorched skin between their teeth and tasted him. Teased him. Jerked him off. Drove him up against climax until he howled and whined for Trip’s mercy his hands now too busy with matchsticks to finish.

—four—

One struck his lips. Snubbed out on his throat. Another nibbled his nose and fell into his hair like a fuse.

—one—

Amidst the dancing feet, Mink heard his skull crack. The splinter of super-heated steel snapping. Softening. Dribbling through his sulci. Prickling down his brain stem. Draining the final dregs from his mind until he was hollow.

—one four—

Sulfur sank into his scalp. Smoke ate at his face until his vision speckled white. Little licking flames feasted down his ears. Between the screaming ripping cleansing fire the reapers pulling pulling pulling his hair to ash ribbons the sinner’s-skin drum was Trip’s stinging mouth devouring his burns. Lapping his weeping wounds as more were drawn and left to put themselves out.

—One—

A bit of melted flesh came loose from the side of his head and was consumed. His eyelashes melted together; trapping his eyes to bake in their sockets.

one

Someone took his hand.

Trip laughed.


End file.
